When fusion is discussed in culinary terms, it’s usually of the broader, cross-cultural sort, either occurring organically (Indo-Chinese, Chinese-Caribbean, Indo-Caribbean) or mandated by the exigencies of the market (any place you can get both Sushi and Pad Thai). But there are also smaller instances of synthesis, ones occurring incessantly within national cultures themselves, sometimes at the behest of foreign influence, sometimes owing to other factors. Take Delimanjoo, which is run out of a small booth in Manhattan’s Koreatown, sharing space with a steamed bun dispensary and doling out a small set roster of seemingly traditional pastries. These have individual appellations, yet here get classed together under the name of the shop, itself a portmanteau (Delicious, or Delice, the company’s name, and Manjoo/doo, for dumpling). Delimanjoo is a global chain that most famously sells these cute little corns stuffed with custard, a treat I’m convinced they did not invent, although I can find no immediate visual evidence of their existence anywhere else. Word of mouth, meanwhile, seems to indicate they’re spotted frequently within the Seoul subway system.
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I first became acquainted with Jordan Almonds as wedding favors, and to this day I’m not sure I’ve seen one elsewhere, aside from scant appearances at Sweet Sixteens or other commemorative milestone events. This doesn’t seem an entirely unjust fate for what few would argue as the world’s greatest candy, especially one whose purpose often appears to be largely aesthetic, although I’m glad they haven’t vanished altogether. I was therefore unprepared to find a cousin out in the wild, especially lurking within the aromatic confines of a Middle Eastern grocery. As with many such bits of de-ethnicized cultural detritus, it’s almost surprising to learn that they have an extensive history, one linked to a candying style that that can apparently also be applied to chickpeas, making for a pastel-colored sack of fun. Resembling a small clutch of balloons, these are actually a type of dragee, a confection category which comprises any small item coated in a thin candy shell (technically, M&Ms are dragees, although few would label them as such). These retain the light funk possessed by all dried chickpeas, which makes for a bit of difficulty in enjoying them solely as a sweet snack. As with the almonds, the candy coating also softens the object inside, robbing it of some of its crunch. In terms of specific history, this site labels them as Lebanese, where they have they’re known as “mlabbas aa qdameh,” a fact which squares with the source of the peas, Atlantic Ave’s Oriental Pastry and Grocery. A close relative of Noghl, chickpeas coated in sugar and rosewater, which of course also have an almond version as well.
An Easter special - although to be honest I bought and consumed this bit of pastry months ago - cassatelle marks one of those special occasions where cannoli cream is inserted into something other than a cannoli. It shouldn’t be confused with Cassata, another traditional paschal dessert that appears to have a much more illustrious status in the world of Italian dolces, meriting an entire Wikipedia entry of its own. Cassatelle, which along with the other two items has a Sicilian origin, doesn’t seem to merit as much attention, although I imagine that, due to their shared ingredients and similar name (likely both derived from the Arabic qashatah, or bowl) they have a parallel history. What is Snack Semiotics, however, but a place for the underloved, the misbegotten, and the regionally specific to have their moment in the spotlight. Not to mention that this pastry, often referred to as cassateddi in Sicilian, is delicious, providing a pillowy alternative to the cannoli's shatter-crunch carapace. This humble dough horn boasts specific versions local to both Trapani and Agira, and I’m sure that if were to start splitting hairs (or kicking around the Sicilian countryside) a dozen more varieties would turn up.
Traditionally, these are stuffed with ricotta, some kind of cocoa, or a combination of the two. They also resemble, at least to my mind, some forms of empanada. As I prepare to make Sardinian Panada for Easter, I wonder if it’s time to contemplate the many appearances of ostensibly Spanish cuisine items in Italian cooking, and to attempt to figure out exactly what this says about Spanish influence upon the illustrious peninsula. Alas, the baking project that lies before me (itself a topic for a future post, should no disasters occur) assures that it isn’t. As with many Caribbean islands, Barbados has its share of Indian-originating products, introduced by workers imported during the British colonial era, whose culture is now an inextricable part of the traditional island mélange. This cross-continental transference is also the force, in my opinion, behind the very-Bajan snack food known as Sugar Daddies, which seem to have an ostensible origin in Indian jalebi, not to mention the wider category of sweets and savories combining a fried dough base with nuts and seeds. It’s pretty hard to find a direct link confirming this transference, and I may have already jeopardized my current employment with a search for “Barbados Sugar Daddies” on company time. Still, there’s evidence, specifically Trinidadian Kurma, a recognized Indian import and cousin of Guyanese Mithia, which tellingly also go by the name “goolab jamun.” The question of how these crunchy fritters became nominally associated with a syrup-soaked milk ball presents yet another mystery, but whatever the case, these things are delicious, sort of a condensed churro with frosted sugar overtones. The brand is BiBi’s, which doesn’t offer much in the way of packaging design or online presence, but at least has an affable Facebook account.
Along the dunes in North Truro, MA, the end of August means rosehips, a fruit far less appreciated than the flower which precedes it. This makes sense, since despite resembling lustrous, bite-sized tomatoes, rosehips are fundamentally inedible, at least without a little massaging. After the flowers have bloomed and been fertilized, they contract back into dense packets of thick red skin enveloping tiny, stubbornly-set seeds, the rose’s essential redness concentrated down into an impenetrable little nub. These same late-summer weeks also produce a rarer, easier-to-enjoy fruit, with stands of rosehips interspersed with bunches of beach plums (the beautifully named prunus maritima), a relative of the cherry whose ubiquity along New England’s coasts has faded with modern beachfront development. The two plants often occupy the same territory, and having had the good fortune to spend a week of summer 2015 on a stretch of beach dominated by both of these plants, I ended up collecting a healthy amount of fruit from both.
This one was an impulse buy, purchased mostly thanks to its magnificent box, which I snapped up while trawling the aisles of a local Vietnamese supermarket. Based on the name I wasn’t expecting much, and was therefore delighted to discover the Vietnamese equivalent to halvah, a treasure trove of sweet, dusty dessert cubes, with a nice mung bean funk replacing the usually nutty twang. The exceedingly handsome package opens to reveal a tray of twelve separately packed containers (I notice that packaging within packaging seems to be a trend in Asian snacking, although I guess it is in American as well). As the box notes, this confection is a specialty of Hai Duong province, located in North Vietnam’s Red River Delta, where it’s apparently served in two distinct forms. I’m guessing this one is the dry version; the only real problem with these is actually how easily they crumble into dust, a condition that’s visible in the second picture below, which shows the little treats in its unpackaged form. The name Bánh Đậu Xanh literally translates to “mung bean cakes,” and the interplay between the beans and the rich coconut that provides the necessary fat content is pretty fantastic. Also not that hard to prepare on your own, if this recipe is to be believed.
What we know in America as Turkish Delight is, somewhat obviously, not referred to by that name in Turkey. Instead it goes by “lokum,” a word which seems to derive from Arabic for “morsel.” These are, however, a definitively Turkish invention, dreamed up at some point in the late 18th century, as traditional Ottoman confectionery was honed to a point of sugary perfection. Perfection in this case means small cubes of rosewater, lemon peel or bitter orange-flavored candy, thickened and bound with glucose to an ethereal chewiness that stops somewhere just short of a marshmallow. They made a huge impression on Europe upon their import in the 19th century, thus branding them with their current Western name, although it seems worth mentioning that they were initially known as the much goofier “Lumps of Delight.” As sold at Gulluoglu, a Turkish oasis amid the sea of Greek shops in the heart of Astoria, the rows of lokum are a beautiful sight, forming a tessellated horde of similarly-shaped brethren, all of them cast in soft pastel hues. This one had its surface dusted with a straw-like layer of toasted coconut, a popular topping at this export franchise, one of three locations in the city, which have operated in Turkey since 1871. It’s hard to say when and how a tropical fruit accompaniment became so connected to this characteristically Middle Eastern snack, but the two form a perfect pair, the softness of the lokum cosseted inside the coconut's toothsome sawdust coating.
While the unphotogenic nature of this odd candy may seem to have something to do with the waxy translucence of the packaging, I can report that, even unwrapped, it does pretty much look like a turd that’s been hung out to dry in the sun. The same can be said for the churchkhela’s fresher cousin, although I imagine these confections fare better when encased within the traditional layer of thickened fruit juice, instead of one formed from intractable high fructose corn syrup. The processed imitation, despite its “aphrodisiac” claims, seems more silly than anything, encased in a soft plasticine aspic that demands knife-cutting rather than direct biting chomping. The taste is passable, with some hints of grape molasses (technically grape must, according to the ingredients list) and large walnut chunks helping to combat the otherwise-overwhelming artificiality on display. As for real stuff, despite churchkhela’s popularity beyond its native Georgia, into Turkey (the origin point of this snack), Armenia, Russia and beyond, I have not seen it anywhere in NYC. The Turkish on the packaging describes a “grape walnut dried sausage,” (despite what the Engish/German/French translations read); I imagine the fresh version’s range is limited to places where grapes grow in abundance, their byproducts funneled into mass sweet treat diversions. Georgia is wine country, and so blessed with these sort of resources, necessitating similar overflow desserts like pelamushi, a beautiful, pretty delicious grape pudding. Churchkhela can’t compete in the looks department (at its best it seems to resemble a poorly made candle or a fire cracker), but I imagine that, consumed on some remote Georgian vineyard in the fading evening light, it can make for a pretty magical experience in its own right.
There’s something oddly evocative about the packaging for Marukawa’s fruit gums, with their neat little square boxes (containing three four small gums apiece) drawing aesthetic parallels to some bygone style of design (taxonomic charts? '60s-era juice bars? frozen juice concentrate packages?) that I can’t exactly put my finger on. The gum itself is equivalently mysterious, offering an ephemeral burst of faint, Chiclet-like fruit flavor, then evaporating into nothingness. The only issue with this is that, these being gum pellets, you’re left with the sallow, flavorless grub in your mouth as a reminder of the candy’s lingering connection to the cruel corporeal world. Another key reminder; the main breadwinner of the Marukawa line is not these ethereal little confections, but this garish product, which resorts to the allure of acrobatic musician bears and a free tattoo sticker to lure in a (likely juvenile?) audience. I imagine the taste is also a lot less subtle.
The Pringles Man, at one point, seemed to possess definitively human facial features, before gradually being reduced to an ovoid, anthropomorphic egg creature with the tousled hair and moustache of a 19th century barkeep. Reducing its logo to a cipher, the brand’s design budget instead seems to have been directed toward the rest of the packaging, finding perhaps its most brilliant conceit yet in the concept of a single hooked Pringle, hanging alongside two rosy Serrano hams. These Spanish delicacies, while not on par with the world-class jamón iberico (treated so luxuriously that I recently spotted one outfitted with its own sun-deflecting jacket) still rest safely on the level of classy foods not easily approximated by potato chips. I didn’t taste these Pringles, which were purchased as a souvenir, and thus can’t vouch for their likeness to charcuterie, but they serve as yet another indicator of the slightly off-kilter world of foreign snack foods, where everything is at once familiar and totally alien.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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